Works in progress

GROWING UP IN LOBATSE (the hill)

The hill was full of bushes and had red soil. There were stones shaped and colored different from the other. Going through the hill was the easier way home. We would take the snaking road besides some high school on our way home. The travel was adventurous because there were probing dry thorns ready to push through our skins, make them bleed. And ants that bit as much as being burnt by a hot plate. So the way home was quick and jumpy and cautious. We would find wild fruits and eat them. Not knowing if any of them could be poisonous. We did not know of any imitation that would result in one of use getting sick, which happened, in that sequence and we had no idea which fruit it was. Besides they were all the same, they looked the same: color, shape, smell, taste, and we did not know.

Sometimes, there would be people dressed up in white garments, who’d chant someday after school. We never saw their faces, never. Only heard their voices, singing and their bodies moving to the rhythm of the songs they sang. As if they were in a trance. They had no shoes on and even if their knees were on red soil, their clothes remained as pure as snow. But it never snowed there. It was as if we were watching a clip of a movie and we would stay there curious to see them. But as they turned around to descend from the hill, we would run down, feeling out stomachs turn, rolling down. Our bodies: light but aching from the uneven road on which we were upon. It seemed fun at the time, not until one of us fell and scratched a knee. That would not even stop us from fleeing; we would go on and on till we reached the snaking road, going home.

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